Hermione's Rubicon
by lizziebennetgonesolo
Summary: Hermione finds herself in an impossible situation and her hand is forced. In the fallout of her actions, what exactly will she become, and how will she react to a classmate following a similar downward spiral?
1. The Rubicon

**A/N:** **Because I'm an irresponsible FF author and my muse is incorrigible, here is a new story that kept nagging at me to be put down on paper—or rather, to be typed out in a word processor.**

 **This fic will take a major veer away from canon starting at the end of OotP. Elements of the original plot will make an appearance, of course, but...well, you'll see.**

 **I warn all readers from the outset that:**

 **1) I am _not_ reliable in terms of posting chapters on a regular basis. If you choose to follow this story, you will be subject, as I am, to my fickle muse and to the constraints of my busy schedule (in that they make my updates unpredictable). **

**2) This story is not for the faint of heart. The premise itself is rather dark. There will be graphic violence, torture, vulgar language, sexual content, and other mature subject matter in this fic. It is also, as you will likely have noted, rated M; I have chosen that rating for good reason. Read ahead at your own discretion.**

 **All that being said: here is your first chapter. I hope it's entertaining. Please feel free to let me know your thoughts on this intro to the story in a review if you can spare a moment. Thanks!**

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 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter franchise; it belongs to J.K. Rowling and her licensees. This story is written purely for enjoyment and I do not profit from its being written nor from its being shared on this site. No copyright infringement is intended.

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rubicon: _a point of no return_.

* * *

Hermione's mood was subdued as she sat quietly in the back of a nondescript cab, headed home from King's Cross Station.

Her parents had sent her an owl earlier in the week making their apologies and explaining that they'd be attending a dentistry conference out-of-town—something about a showcase of cutting-edge equipment and a chance to lecture on the exemplary hygienic standards of their clinic—and as such would be unable to greet her as they usually did at the train station. It was a once-in-a-decade kind of opportunity, her father had written, and so they simply couldn't pass it up.

With their letter and its effusive regret, the Doctors Granger had enclosed more than enough money to cover the cab fare from King's Cross to their London townhouse and a promise to catch up with Hermione as soon as they returned the next week.

Thus, it was with a twinge of disappointment that their daughter had joined the queue for a taxi after Harry, the Weasleys, and the Order members who'd accompanied them had departed. As she waited, Hermione took a few moments to ready herself for a lonely, quiet handful of days in an empty house.

Then, after exchanging a few pleasantries and her destination with a kind-faced, Cockney-accented cabbie, it was no time at all before Hermione was staring out the backseat window of his taxi into the streets of London. She made the odd bit of polite conversation as was expected, but for the most part, Hermione simply sat in tired, contemplative silence.

Her thoughts were preoccupied by a deep concern for Harry. Hermione knew on an intellectual level that her friend had to return to Privet Drive with the Dursleys at the Headmaster's bidding, and for good reason; but on a more emotional one, the thought of Harry having to go back to _that_ place with _those_ people was utterly repugnant to her. Hermione had a fleeting urge to make the return trip to Hogwarts so that she could berate Professor Dumbledore for forcing Harry to endure yet another stay with his reprehensible relatives.

 _He needs to be with his friends_ , she thought with vehement conviction. _After losing Sirius the way he did and after everything else that happened, doesn't he deserve that one minor privilege?_ She sighed, a bitter remark floating unbidden from the subconscious depths of her mind to its forefront. _Harry's life is seldom so kind._

Hermione continued to ruminate in that vein of thought, gnawing at her lower lip with such unconscious enthusiasm that, when her tongue shot out automatically to soothe the ravaged flesh, she noticed an unmistakable, coppery flavour in her mouth. She licked covertly at her lip a couple of times, attempting to sweep away the taste; but in spite of her efforts, her blood kept welling at the broken skin, refusing to clot. Eventually, Hermione gave a huff of irritated resignation and leaned back in her seat, allowing her head fall back against the headrest and her thoughts to resume their previous train.

Before long, however, the cabbie was pulling up in front of the townhouse where the Grangers lived and Hermione was forced out of her trance as the familiar entrance-way slid into her line of sight. She paid her fare with the money her parents had sent her and, upon quick reflection, tipped the cabbie a bit extra, grateful that he'd seemed to sense her mood and largely left her in peace over the course of the ride. He thanked her with a genial smile and even got out of the cab to help her lift her heavy trunk and Crookshanks's cage out of the boot before he took off. Touched by his thoughtfulness, Hermione gave the man a little wave as he drove away.

Once the cabbie had turned a corner and disappeared from view, the world-weary witch got to work hauling her luggage up the steps to the front door. After she'd accomplished that feat, she then spent a good thirty seconds rummaging around in her handbag for her key to the townhouse. Letting out a quiet yip of triumph when she finally found the elusive thing, Hermione inserted the key into the lock and turned, pushing the door open with her bodyweight so that she could heave her trunk and Crooks's cage through the doorway and set them down on the tiled floor of the little foyer. Crookshanks was hissing up a storm within the confines of his cage, so Hermione immediately let him out, knowing how anxious he must be to stretch out his limbs after being cooped up for so long in the box.

To his mistress's confusion, however, Crookshanks didn't react as he typically did after being released; rather, he butted his head against her shins insistently, hissing and growling. Hermione reached a hand down to scratch the fur behind the cat's ears, frowning thoughtfully as she did so.

 _Crooks isn't just annoyed_ , she realized. _He's frightened._

Hermione knew that her feline companion had excellent instincts and acknowledged that they'd yet to lead her astray; she would be remiss to start doubting them now. Feeling a prickle of paranoia, Hermione palmed the hilt of her wand and slowly withdrew it from the open, pouch-like handbag that was still slung across her torso.

 _Besides_ , she thought, _it never hurts to take precautions._ _Constant vigilance and all that._ A flicker of a smile graced her lips as Alastor Moody's infamous motto sprung to mind.

Crookshanks slipped out from under her fingers and disappeared up the steps that led from the secluded entrance-way into the sitting room. Though her view of her cat was blocked by the high wall to her right, Hermione nonetheless heard the muffled thump of his paws hitting the hardwood floor and couldn't help but grin in spite of her mounting anxiety. In the privacy of her own thoughts, Hermione admitted that, _perhaps_ , she had been spoiling her cat a tad much at feeding time. That wasn't to say that Crooks was fat, per se; but that being said, he certainly wasn't a model of feline grace or agility, either.

Without warning, a poignant yowl came from the sitting room, breaking Hermione out of her musings. In fact, the young witch was so startled by the sound that she very nearly jumped out of her skin. As she took a couple of deep breaths to try to slow her racing heartbeat, Hermione's paranoia morphed into full-fledged trepidation and her mouth flattened into a stern, taut line. The door behind her had been left ajar but she paid it no mind; in truth, she'd forgotten about it completely.

In a true moment of Gryffindor courage, the witch began to climb the small staircase to the main level with her wand at the ready, craning her neck to peer around the corner of the wall and into the sitting room above—

—and she promptly let out an ungodly, bloodcurdling shriek of horror, stopping two steps short of the landing.

There, on an Oriental carpet of his wife's choosing that he'd absolutely abhorred, her father lay spread-eagle.

His mouth was slack, drool and something darker crusted at its corners, splotches of ruddy brown dotting his chin and the fabric beneath it.

His neck was bent unnaturally to one side.

His blue eyes were pale, glassy, and chillingly vacant.

Hermione's heart hammered fast as a mockingbird's in her chest cavity, each beat battering her ribs from the inside. Even as she took the final two steps up into the sitting room, bile rose in her throat; but Hermione found herself inexplicably unable to vomit. Her throat constricted in painful cramps and all of the sudden, she seemed to lose the ability to breathe.

For an indefinite moment, Hermione suffocated, and wild, visceral panic clawed and scratched at her insides.

Eventually, though, because it had to...it passed. One second, her eyes were tearing up from lack of oxygen; the next, Hermione's lungs gave a sudden heave, and without even realizing what she was doing, the witch sucked in gulp after gasping gulp of air, crouching and bending over to put her head between her knees as she was hit with a heady wave of vertigo.

Before she'd truly recovered, a jarring, deranged laugh slithered its way into Hermione's ears, freezing her into place and sending a thrill of fear down her spine. After the incident in the Department of Mysteries, Hermione would know that voice anywhere...and unless she was mistaken, its owner was waiting for her in the dining room.

Hermione immediately snapped to attention, wand clenched in a white-knuckled fist as she did her best to ignore the pounding, headache-like pain and the dizziness that accompanied the rush of blood to her head. Anguish, fear, and a steady sense of foreboding pushed their way into Hermione's focus, and for a brief second, she was tempted by the notion of turning tail and running for it.

She couldn't though, and she knew so all too well, because she wasn't an idiot. She had a fairly clear idea of what was waiting for her.

Hermione allotted herself precisely three seconds to pull herself together. Then, she strode determinedly into the dining room, wand raised at chest-level as she braced herself for what she suspected she would find there.

Hermione was a smart girl, so it was no surprise that when she made her entrance, the sight that greeted her was exactly the one she'd anticipated. Unfortunately for her, in this case, foreknowledge was of no help whatsoever.

Because there, at the opposite end of the Grangers' long, family dinner table—still bedecked in its pristine tablecloth and painstakingly arranged place settings—was Jean Granger, Hermione's mother.

To say she was in a bad way was an understatement. Dark, mottled bruises followed the line of her cheekbones; a thin, jagged cut ran down the side of her face; her bottom lip was split and puffy. She stood stock-still, the living epitome of tension as she fixed her daughter with an intense stare.

But though she'd been prepared for it, the most alarming sight of all to Hermione was that of the elegant, wicked dagger that dug lightly into the flesh of her mother's throat.

Its blade was nestled there almost _lovingly_ by a woman in possession of a head of dark, unruly curls not dissimilar to Hermione's, though that was where the resemblance between the two women ended.

The woman holding Dr. Granger hostage had harsh, striking features that were nothing like the Muggle-born's and whose beauty had been whittled away over the years by starvation, neglect, and the woman's own cruelty. She had one arm raised to hold her knife at Jean's throat; the other had shoved itself between the Muggle's back and arms above her bound wrists, so that Hermione's mother could be held flush against the witch's front and rendered effectively immobile. Her wand, thick-handled and curved like a Hippogriff's talon, poked out beside Jean's waist, its aim trained directly at Hermione's chest.

"So!" exclaimed one Bellatrix Lestrange, her faux-innocent tone belied by a clear undercurrent of malice. "The Mudblood has _finally_ decided to grace us with her presence. And just when I was starting to wonder if she would even bother to visit at all!"

Sadistic gratification was written all over the Death Eater's face; she looked as though she was having the time of her life, Hermione reflected with no small amount of disgust.

"So rude of you to keep us waiting, you know," Bellatrix went on, flashing the shaking Muggle-born a leering, yellow-toothed grin over Jean Granger's shoulder. "Especially after I went to so much trouble arranging our little surprise party! I had to _Confound_ two Order members to do it, you know. The killjoys." She rolled her eyes and tutted obnoxiously. "So mean. But I managed in the end. You bought into that letter after all, didn't you?"

Bellatrix's grin widened as Hermione's breath hitched. "Oh yes, Mudblood," she said, using that infuriating baby-voice affectation of which she seemed to be partial. "That was me. Well—but I should give your parents some credit. They were so docile under the _Imperius,_ you know, as all Muggles naturally are. You have such obedient, little darlings for parents, Mudblood, even if they aren't fit to lick the scum from my boots.

"Oh! And, of course, I even left you a little welcome-home present in the front room! I know you saw it, I heard your reaction—did you like it? I had ever so much fun arranging it for you; I thought that you'd appreciate my attention to detail."

Hermione's vision bled scarlet and her fingers clenched reflexively around the curve of her wand. Beyond that, though, she refused to respond to the provocation.

"Hermione." Said girl's eyes snapped to her mother's at the feeble rasp of her name. Hoarsely, Jean told her, "Go, sweetheart. Lea—"

The Granger matriarch winced; Bellatrix had pressed the knife harder into the skin over her larynx, and Hermione could see the faintest hint of crimson peeking out around the blade.

"Ah, ah, ah," crooned Voldemort's most devoted servant, her grip on the dagger's handle tightening noticeably. "That's enough from you, mummy." Her eyes gleamed with maniacal delight in the dim glow that had managed to creep out from around the dining room drapes.

"Bellatrix Lestrange." Hermione stated the name with numb revulsion, her wand trained unerringly on the woman's face even as the rest of her body trembled under the influence of the veritable cocktail of emotions flooding her nervous system.

"Yes, that's me," cooed the ruthless, brilliant lunatic of a witch. "Precocious little Mudblood, aren't you?" Bellatrix nuzzled Dr. Granger's cheek with her own, still sallow and gaunt from years of malnutrition, courtesy of Azkaban. "You must be so proud of her, Mummy Muggle, isn't that right?"

Hermione's mother struggled in vain to escape Bellatrix's grasp, which only resulted in her being squeezed even more insistently. Bellatrix gave a throaty chuckle. "How sweet!" she declared, all venomous, gloating sarcasm. "All that motherly concern. So _touching_! But you won't be going anywhere just yet, dearie. Of course, your fate depends entirely on your daughter, here."

The eldest Black sister turned her attention to Hermione, a sneer pulling thin lips back to reveal the rather impressive extent of the damage that Azkaban had done to the witch's teeth. "So, Her-mi-on-e Grang-er," Bellatrix toyed with the name, "you have a choice. If you drop your wand and choose to accept your new status as a hostage of the Dark Lord without acting out, Mummy dearest may yet live to see another sunrise. If you refuse..." The witch smiled at the prospect. "Well. Let's just _say..._ she'll get the same as itty, bitty _Neville's_ parents."

Hermione's clenched jaw quivered almost infinitesimally, but Bellatrix still noticed the subtle tick and immediately proceeded to shriek a few discordant giggles.

"Ooh, you've _seen_ them, haven't you?" she crowed, elated by the revelation. "Been visiting St. Mungo's, Mudblood? Do tell me—how's dear Alice? She was a strong one, you know. Lasted for almost a half hour before her mind finally _cracked_ —"

 _"Bombarda!_ " cried Hermione, aiming at the ceiling over Bellatrix's head; but to the Muggle-born's dismay, the other witch deflected her hex with a simple flick of her wrist and a well-placed Shield Charm. On its diverted course, the spell struck the door of a cabinet against the wall to Hermione's left and the glass plaque shattered into well over a hundred shards of crystal. They fell to the floor in a tinkling clatter.

"Ooh! Naughty, naughty, Mudblood," Bellatrix scolded with a playful pout, tutting for the second time as she basked in Hermione's failure. "You'll not get rid of me quite so easily, dearie. I've had decades to hone my reflexes, you know, and even if Azkaban set me back a little, I still have years on you. No, no."

Bellatrix's coal-black eyes somehow grew even darker. All traces of amusement deserted them until only unbridled, _unhinged_ bloodlust remained.

"You'll do as you're told," she told Hermione in a lethal tone that brooked no argument, "or I'll torture your precious mother past her breaking point and then slit her throat right before your eyes for good measure."

Hermione's thoughts raced as her heart beat out a staccato. Her mind had played out several different versions of how this confrontation could end, and none of them were looking good so far. Bellatrix was undoubtedly far more skilled than she, through no fault of Hermione's own; it was a colossally unfair match. The only way she could envision herself escaping was by gaining the element of surprise, and she was coming up short on possible diversions. She'd hoped that her _Bombarda_ would bring the ceiling down on Bellatrix and Jean, knocking them both unconscious and giving her time to retrieve her mother and make a break for it; but she hadn't been able to catch Bellatrix off-guard. And now the madwoman would be even more alert for any sign of the Muggle-born's magic.

 _I need to stall her,_ Hermione thought to herself, panic jolting through her body as the probability of her impending defeat and capture seemed to grow more certain with each passing second.

"How do I know that you'll let her live if I do as you ask?" Hermione demanded, making one last, desperate gamble for time. As she waited breathlessly for a response, the Muggle-born witch said silent prayers to every deity she'd ever heard of, begging them take pity on her and let Bellatrix take the bait.

And then, in the first, miraculous stroke of luck that Hermione had been granted that day, Bellatrix's fondness for toying with her food before she ate it proved enough to distract her from the younger witch's ulterior motive. Even better: it had set her _monologuing._

She'd fallen for Hermione's ploy, hook, line, and sinker.

So, while Bellatrix essentially admitted (albeit at much greater length) that the Muggle-born witch could have no such assurances, seizing the opportunity to indulge in her more sadistic tendencies, Hermione used the precious seconds she'd gained to ruthlessly strip the situation down to its bare bones and come up with the following understanding of its parameters:

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 **1:** As previously established, Hermione was outmatched by Bellatrix in skill and experience.

 **2:** Hermione couldn't expect any outside help at this point in time. In the midst of her grief and panic upon discovering her father's murder, she'd missed her chance to use her charmed galleon to send out an S.O.S. to the DA (which would have been a shot in the dark in the first place given that none of its members knew her home address); her skill at casting a corporeal Patronus charm was limited and hadn't advanced to the point of her being able to use it to send a message; and the Grangers' townhouse was not connected to the Floo Network, either.

In short? She was on her own.

 **3:** Also as previously established, Hermione's best shot at survival and escape was to gain the element of surprise in order to distract Bellatrix for long enough to make it to the street.

 **4:** To gain the element of surprise, drastic measures would have to be taken, as Bellatrix was already hyperaware of Hermione's movements.

 **5:** Not only were Hermione's life and freedom in jeopardy, but her mother's life and sanity were also at even more imminent risk.

 **6:** However, no matter how Hermione felt about item 5 or how stubbornly she clung to denial, the hard truth concerning her mother was this: all the odds pointed towards Jean Granger being subjected to the hideous fate of torture and death at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange, regardless of whether her daughter made it out alive. Try as she might, Hermione could think of no way to save her mother, and she was not so naive as to believe that Bellatrix or her ilk would show mercy to the Muggle parent of a creature they perceived as an abomination.

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With all of the factors laid out so plainly, the only semi-viable path presented itself to Hermione with all of the pleasantness of a hard kick to the stomach, and even as Hermione felt her time running out, it took her a whole five seconds to accept the course of action as what it was: her best option.

Once she had, her eyes pricked hotly and, acting on instinct, Hermione sought the comfort and the guidance of her mother's gaze.

Jean Granger was already focused on her daughter's eyes by the time they turned their attention back to her. She'd been watching the cogs turn in Hermione's brilliant mind for the past minute, willing the girl to come to the same conclusion that Jean herself had reached days ago after having spent just a single hour in the custody of Bellatrix Lestrange and having learnt _exactly_ what the psychotic woman had in store for each member of the Granger kin.

The second the eyes she'd know anywhere met hers, Jean could see that Hermione finally understood what had to happen. The floodgates burst open, and Jean's heart was filled with a painful mixture of hope and sorrow as she watched her beloved daughter come to grips with her newfound realization.

"Mum." Hermione's voice finally cut across Bellatrix's raving, breaking halfway through the word; she blinked rapidly to refocus her sight through the persistent film of moisture that kept spilling over her lower lids. Against her will, her wand hand trembled.

She cleared her throat and tried again, selecting her words with care.

"Mum...you understand what would happen if I tried to bail on you, right? You saw what happened to Dad?"

Bellatrix soaked up Hermione's misery like plant starved of sunlight. "Ah! So the Mudblood sees sense at last," she remarked, triumph and pedantic approval in her tone. The Death Eater tittered and cooed banal platitudes at the Muggle-born and her mother, trying to fan the flames of the drama, convinced as she was that Hermione's surrender was close at hand.

Meanwhile, Hermione's mother blinked once in response to her question. Jean's eyes, which she'd passed on to her daughter down to last, minute, amber fleck, were streaming with silent tears that mirrored her daughter's.

"Then you know what I have to do," said Hermione bravely, ignoring Bellatrix's taunts. Salt water overflowed from her tear ducts, running down Hermione's cold, pale cheeks as a violent tremor rippled its way through her frame.

A sad half-smile and another blink came from Dr. Granger.

"I'm so sorry, Mum. I love you."

Despite the knife at her throat, Jean managed an infinitesimal nod and a slightly wider smile for her daughter.

Hermione took a moment to memorize her mother's face. She made note of the soft, worn creases on either side of her mother's mouth, across her forehead, between her brows; of the wispy, salt-and-pepper curls at her temples; of her eyes...

There was nothing but love and acceptance in those wide, brown eyes.

The sight of Jean's forgiveness sliced at Hermione's heartstrings like the dagger at her mother's throat; but it also gave her strength.

Steeling herself, Hermione racked her brains for anything that would help her to do what was necessary. There wasn't much information available from anything she'd read, but a recent conversation with her best friend rattled somewhere at the back of her mind from where she'd tucked it away for safekeeping.

 _What was it that Harry'd said?_ Hermione desperately tried to remember. _It was just a little comment, but I remember it being unsettling. Something about_ —

"Enough, Mudblood. Your time's up," drawled Bellatrix; but still, Hermione paid her little attention. Her brain was whirring away, desperate for the detail that eluded her, hovering somewhere just out of reach—

And then, her mother's swollen, bloody lips mouthed, _I love you_ ; and just like that, it struck Hermione like a bolt of lightening.

 _That's right,_ she recalled, a chill creeping over her heart like cold, insidious mist.

Bellatrix's impatient warning of "Now drop the wand, or Mummy dearest gets it!" just barely registered with Hermione as finally—reluctantly—she _remembered._

* * *

Harry had said: "She told me...that you have to _mean_ it."

Hermione could make that work.

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 _"Avada_ _Kedavra."_

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A wicked jet of emerald light electrified the darkness of the dining room, and time seemed to slow to a standstill. The curse flew over the china-laden table, piercing Bellatrix's instinctive shield with ease, racing towards the space underneath the witch's arm—

—where it struck Jean Granger directly over the heart.

Bella hadn't even had to move her to shield herself.

And then it sunk in.

Bellatrix's lidded eyes flew wide open with surprise. The female Death Eater froze in shock before staggering slightly, instinctively moving to support the weight of her limp hostage.

That was all the distraction Hermione needed.

" _Incendio maxima!_ " shouted the young witch, her pupils dilated from the adrenaline in her veins and her heart pounding as though possessed as grief and rage overtook her body and fed her roiling magic.

A great, white-hot tongue of heat flowed from Hermione's wand and, without hesitation, she brandished it with a harsh slash. The sizzling length of fire split the air like a whip, setting the dining room table and the hardwood floor alight in an instant before it came around for a second pass, lashing out all the way across the table to strike Jean Granger's corpse in the midriff.

Faster than the blink of an eye, the body in Bellatrix's arms burst into flames.

By the time Lestrange fully understood what had happened, Hermione was already halfway out the front door, running for her life. As she leaped from the top step of the entrance-way to the pavement, Hermione heard the demented witch screech a cacophonous exclamation of outrage from somewhere back in the house, and she shuddered with dread as her feet impacted the hard, stone ground.

She took off in a sprint, heading left down the street.

This was the one, final resort she had in the bank. If it failed, she was done for.

The Muggle-born witch skidded to a halt on the pavement a short ways down the road from the townhouse.

Then, as hope swelled dangerously in her chest, Hermione made a very deliberate jab with her wand in the general direction of the street.

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One second ticked by.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Four—

* * *

— _BANG!_

* * *

And there was her Knight in gleaming, violet armour.

"Welcome to th—Oh, hello, Miss!" greeted a jovial, oblivious Stan Shunpike, who knew Hermione from multiple prior trips she'd taken on the Knight Bus. "Nice to see y—OI!"

Hermione, completely disregarding Stan's nattering, had launched herself onto the loading platform and barged past him onto the bus, knocking the conductor into a golden support bar in her haste. He gave a shout of protest but she continued to ignore him, choosing instead to rush over to the driver after peering frantically out the side window for any sign of Bellatrix.

"I know this will sound insane," Hermione told Ernie the Knight Bus driver, almost frothing at the mouth as she stammered the words, "but I'm being chased by Bellatrix Lestrange, and we need to leave. _N_ _ow,_ Ernie!" she implored him desperately, but when the driver fixed his spectacle-enlarged eyes on her, he had a perplexed, disbelieving frown on his face.

"That sounds like a tall tale, Miss—"

—BAM!

Hermione's panicked eyes immediately zeroed in on the rear-view mirror, where the source of the noise became evident and she cried out in dismay. The door of the Granger townhouse had been blown clear off its hinges and into the street; and from the open entranceway, a visibly incensed Bellatrix Lestrange was descending into the street.

She and Stan caught sight of Bellatrix at precisely the same moment, and the latter gave a shout of pure, unadulterated terror as he watched Voldemort's right-hand Death Eater stalk towards them from his perch on the loading platform.

"LISTEN TO 'ER, ERN," Stan hollered, his voice shrill from fright, "AN' GET US THE BLOODY HELL OUT OF HERE, _PRONTO!_ "

With a look of almost comically exaggerated fright on his face, Ernie disengaged the break and slammed his foot down on the accelerator, _hard._

Just before he did, however, a great, splintering crash echoed from the back of the bus, and Hermione whipped around, fearing the worst.

In the space of a split-second, the Muggle-born witch met the eyes of her murderous aggressor through the shattered window at the rear of the bus; and for the duration of that split-second, Hermione was convinced that she was going to die, right then and there.

She saw the _Avada Kedavra_ take form in Bellatrix's crazed glare, saw her lips part and her chest expand as she took the breath she needed to utter the incantation—

— _BANG!_

And then the view out the back window warped into an unintelligible blur of light and darkness as the Knight Bus took off at a ridiculous speed, rounding a streetcorner, racing through the streets of Muggle London, and leaving Bellatrix Lestrange behind in the midday sun.


	2. A Brief Respite

**A/N: Hello again, all! Thank you for the favourites, follows, and especially for the reviews. I'm grateful for the response that this story has earned so far and glad that people seem to be enjoying the eventful—and admittedly dark—first chapter. Just an FYI, I'm posting this as I'm falling asleep, bleary-eyed, so if there are any glaring typos, please ignore them. They will be removed sometime tomorrow XD**

 **Moving right along!** **Same warnings apply.**

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 **Disclaimer:** I do not own the Harry Potter franchise; it belongs to J.K. Rowling and her licensees. This story is written purely for enjoyment and I do not profit from its being written nor from its being shared on this site. No copyright infringement is intended.

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 _ **c. 1 Year Earlier**_

 _"Hermione, sweetheart." The mother of the young woman in question was leaning against the door frame of her daughter's bedroom, watching said adolescent with concern in her gaze and a frown on her lips. "Something happened again this year, didn't it? Something you're not telling your father and I?"_

 _Hermione looked up from page 49 of_ Hogwarts, A History, _where her unseeing stare had been fixed for an indeterminate amount of time. At the knowing look in her Mum's eyes, Hermione knew that she had no chance of evading the subject of her year at Hogwarts this time. It had been three days since she'd returned home, three days spent away from the magical world in body, but not in spirit. Hermione's thoughts remainly wholly preoccupied with Harry, Cedric's death, and Voldemort's return to power._

 _Hermione sighed. "Yes," she admitted, her voice hesitant, "but I don't really want to talk about it, Mum."_

 _Jean Granger left her post at the doorway, strode slowly into Hermione's room, and settled herself down at the foot of the bed where her daughter was sat, lifting Hermione's ankles up and then laying them down again so that the teen's dainty, sock-covered feet rested in her lap. She took one of those feet in her hands and began to massage it over its cotton, maroon-and-gold striped sheath, using her thumb to apply pressure to length of the arch, just so. Hermione groaned and flopped backwards onto the stack of pillows behind her; if you asked her, her mother gave the best foot massages known to man._

 _"That's rubbish, Hermione," her Mum chastised her good-naturedly. "You_ do _want to talk about it, badly even. It's written all over your face. But you're afraid your father and I are going to take you out of Hogwarts if you tell me, aren't you?" Hermione remained silent, so her mother pressed on. "It was that bad, wasn't it?"_

 _Hermione was quiet for a moment, mulling over her response. "Will you?" she asked. "If I tell you...will you make me leave?"_

 _Dr. Granger considered her daughter's question solemnly, wanting to give her an honest answer. "Well," she began after a long pause, "I guess I should ask you this, Hermione, before I tell you one way or another: do you_ want _to leave?"_

 _"No," Hermione immediately replied, her tone smacking of panic and defiance. "No," she repeated, a little more calmly. "I don't. It's my world, Mum. I love it, in spite of the fact that it's dangerous, in spite of everything I've had to go through because of my being Muggle-born." She shot her mother an apologetic glance. "I can't just leave it behind, and not just because it's where I feel I belong. Harry..." Hermione trailed off for a moment. "He's going to need me, Mum, now more than ever."_

 _"And why is that, darling?" Jean asked, genuine sadness for her daughter's plight shining through her features, albeit mixed with a twinge of trepidation._

 _The Wizarding world was still so unreal to Jean. The only contact the dentist had with it_ — _aside from Hermione herself_ — _was her yearly visit to Diagon Alley accompanying Hermione on her shopping trip for school supplies, as well as the presence of occasional owl rapping at her kitchen window, bearing news from Hermione in letters that had grown increasingly self-censored as the years went by. It was hard for Jean to watch her daughter become so distant, to be drawn deeper into a world in which Jean herself had no place; but at the same time, she understood that it must be even harder for Hermione, who tried to shelter her and Seb (Hermione's father, Sebastian) at every turn, and who had to fend for herself in a society that viewed her as an outsider despite all her efforts to prove it wrong._

 _That last detail had never escaped Jean. Though Hermione had always been naturally academically ambitious, the fervour with which she pursued her studies at Hogwarts (even in the summer) was revealing of a deep-seated insecurity in her daughter, a need to prove herself worthy of being a part of the world that so many of her peers had had the advantage of being born into, rather than being abruptly initiated at the age of eleven. Jean had hoped that the need would subside over time as Hermione grew more comfortable at Hogwarts and in the Wizarding world. It seemed, however, that the opposite had happened_ — _that the better Hermione got to know the magical world, the more she discovered about the extent of the prejudice that existed against wizards and witches like her: Muggle-borns._

 _Hermione sighed again, bringing her mother out of her ruminations. It hurt Jean's heart to hear the world-weariness the simple huff of air betrayed when coupled with furrowing of her daughter's brow and the conflict in her expression. Despite the fact that she tried to keep such knowledge hidden from her parents, that was yet another thing Hermione hadn't quite been able to hide: a growing maturity and, to an extent, cynicism. The end of every year at Hogwarts saw Hermione coming home more solemn and more jaded than the year before, and the shifts seemed to growing exponentially. This year had been no exception._

 _"You know how I wrote you about the Tournament, Mum? About how someone had tampered with the Goblet to force Harry to compete?" Hermione asked, meeting her mother's gaze at last. Jean nodded. "Well," Hermione went on, and her eyes dropped to her clasped hands, where she was finicking with a hangnail, "it turned out that it was...You-Know-Who. Or, well, a follower of You-Know-Who, but same difference, really." At her mother's befuddled expression, the young witch hastily clarified, "I mean Lord Voldemort. The Dark wizard who killed Harry's parents and who's been after him since first year."_

 _Jean frowned as she absorbed the new information. "The one behind the giant snake that Petrified you in your second year?" she asked, her tone foreboding. It had taken the combined efforts of Hogwarts's Headmaster and Minerva McGonagall to convince the Doctors Granger not to pull Hermione from the school then and there after they'd coaxed the reason for Hermione's extended lack of correspondence from their anxious daughter. Hours of placation and reassurance concerning Hermione's safety had been required from the two professors in order to stand Hermione's parents down._

 _Hermione nodded. "Yes_ — _although that was actually a preserved memory of him rather than You-Know-Who himself. The real You-Know-Who was in hiding while all of that was going on, too weak to do much of anything." When her mother continued to look confused, Hermione waved her off. "It's complicated," she declared, clearly determined to leave it at that. "Anyways. The third task of the Tournament was a trap. The goal of the Task was to navigate past a series of obstacles to the center of the maze and be the first to grab the Triwizard Cup—the Tournament's trophy. It turned out that the Cup was enchanted to become a Portkey_ — _a transportation device. Harry and Cedric agreed to take it at the same time;_ _they'd saved each other's lives and were determined to share the prize for winning the Tournament."_

 _Hermione gave her mother a tragic smile, tears filling her eyes; she sniffed, tilting her head back and blinking her eyes in a desperate attempt to stymie their falling._ _Eventually, Hermione gave up and simply withdrew her feet from her Mum's lap, bringing her knees in to her chest and hugging them tightly in an attempt to soothe herself._

 _"The Cup Portkeyed them to a graveyard where You-Know-Who and the servant who'd been keeping him alive were waiting. The servant, Pettigrew_ _—he killed Cedric, Mum." Hermione was crying openly now, tears spilling down her pinkened cheeks. "He killed him just for being there, because You-Know-Who told him to get rid of the spare." The tears morphed into full-blown sobs. "Cedric didn't stand a chance!"_

 _"Oh, Hermione," murmured Jean, admittedly stunned, but not so stunned that she found it beyond herself to gather her daughter up in her arms. As Hermione wept into her mother's shoulder, said mother rubbed her back in slow, firm circles, struggling to come to grips with what she'd learned._

No wonder she was worried about our reactions, _Jean thought to herself._ I'm not particularly enamoured with the idea of letting her go back to that place. What she told us about what happened those other years was bad enough, but a student being murdered?

 _Hermione's sobs and hiccoughs quietened after a little while, and Jean felt her daughter turn her head and lay a cheek on her shoulder, exhausted and all cried out. "You-Know-Who got Pettigrew to do a ritual_ — _that was why they needed Harry_ — _and the long and the short of it is that it restored him to full power. He's back, Mum. You-Know-Who's back, and Harry only escaped him because of a strange bit of magic that happened because their wands_ _—Harry and V-V-Voldemort's_ _—they share the same core. I don't even really understand it," Hermione confessed quietly. "But the Minister of Magic...he didn't believe Harry or Professor Dumbledore about You-Know-Who being back, so this year is bound to be a hard one. They're probably going to smear the both of them in the press, Mum, and that's the last thing Harry needs to deal with right now."_

 _Hermione fell silent after that, obviously deep in thought. Jean joined her in quiet introspection for a time._

 _The younger Granger was the one to break the silence several minutes later._

 _"The only silver lining about Cedric's death," Hermione said slowly, clear reluctance in her tone at the admittance of the possibility of such a thing, "is that it was quick. Pettigrew used the Killing Curse on him, the_ Avada Kedavra _." Jean could feel her daughter gnawing at the inside of her cheek, and knew from experience that her eyes would have glazed over by now, her gaze becoming unfocused. "It's an Unforgivable, enough to earn someone a life sentence in Azkaban Prison, if not the Dementor's Kiss. But it's said to be painless, and it's very fast. So, even though it's_ horrible _that Cedric died," Hermione said, clearly distraught, "at least he didn't suffer."_

 _Jean_ _couldn't help but agree_. Of all the ways the poor, young man could have gone, _she thought to herself grimly,_ there were probably far worse.

* * *

 **Present Day**

It was dark. There was a distinct humming noise in the background _—_ almost a purring of sorts. She was lying on a soft surface that shifted jerkily from side to side every so often.

Wait...she didn't remember lying down. What was going on?

Hermione's eyes fluttered open and immediately squinted to shield themselves from the harsh light overhead. Once they'd adjusted, Hermione could make out the form of a chandelier above her; at the same time, she noticed that she was on a bed _—_ one that, for whatever reason, seemed to be vibrating. All in all, she felt like she'd been run over by a bus.

Something about that last thought struck her as oddly appropriate.

"Where am I?" Hermione croaked. She jolted at the sound of her own voice, not having meant to speak aloud.

"Ah, you're awake, Miss 'er-my-knee! That's a relief. Oh, an' you're on the Knight Bus," a familiar, male voice answered helpfully. "You fainted _—_ not that I blame ya or anythin', but that's wha' happened, ain't it?"

Hermione turned her head towards the source of the response, Stan Shunpike's face came into view...

...and then it all came crashing back.

"Oh my God," Hermione whispered, rocketing up into a sitting position on the bed.

Vertigo struck her like a backhand across the face and nausea punched her in the gut. "I think I'm going to be sick," she murmured, reaching for something unknown, her hands trembling uncontrollably.

In no time, a wastebasket was shoved past her hands and into her lap, directly underneath her chin. Before she had time to utter her thanks, Hermione was violently expelling the contents of her stomach into the bottom of the pail.

As much as the acrid taste of bile that accompanied her vomit was disgusting, Hermione found that there was something cathartic about the act of physically purging her system. Her body seemed to agree; even once there was nothing left in her belly for Hermione to choke up, she continued to dry heave into the wastebasket for several minutes, stomach acid stinging her abused throat.

Some minuscule, unaffected part of Hermione's brain registered a soft, warm weight settling over her shoulders. _Someone's wrapped me in a blanket_ , she noted distractedly. _How thoughtful._

Meanwhile, as her body was busy rejecting her breakfast, Hermione's mind was bogged down under a thick fog of overwhelming numbness.

She didn't see Stan Shunpike waving a hand in front of her face, didn't hear him calling her, asking her if she was all right. All Hermione could see was a bolt of unholy, shocking green light, a familiar pair of brown eyes, and the exact moment when the consciousness had left those same familiar, brown eyes—the moment when any and all spiritual presence had been blasted right out of them, leaving only a poignant vacancy behind.

 _Avada Kedavra_ , she recalled silently. _Likely d_ _erived from either Latin, Turkish, Aramaic, or a combination thereof. It has several possible meanings, the most well-known of which being "let the thing be destroyed."_

After seeing the spell's effect firsthand, Hermione had a morbid, newfound appreciation for its etymological roots. _Abracadabra indeed_ , she mused abstractly, feeling strangely disconnected from not only her body, but from the entire chain of events that had just come to pass.

With that same detached disinterest, Hermione noted that she was likely in shock. And what was more? She couldn't really bring herself to care.

 _I just killed my mother,_ Hermione thought, trying to provoke some sort of reaction in herself beyond the persistent, echoing emptiness that she was currently experiencing. _I committed matricide. Or was it euthanasia? Maybe both_ — _what do you call it if it was both?_

Her inner monologue paused as she pondered the question with the same idle curiosity with which one might consider a clue in a crossword puzzle.

 _E_ _uthanasic matricide?_ she tried. _Yes, let's go with that. 'I committed euthanasic matricide to spare the woman who raised me from the gruesome fate of being tortured and murdered by a psychopathic witch with a penchant for sadism.'_

 _Or, in other words, I killed my own mother._

Hermione's body gave its last, shuddering dry heave at the thought, and the force of it was enough to wrench the young witch from her hysteria-induced trance.

As she came to, Hermione heard Stan Shunpike's voice once again. He was saying, "I reckon she's in shock, eh, Ern? Dunno where we should take 'er, tho. St. Mungo's, d'you reckon? Tho, if she's on the run, it might no' be the best place to turn up."

"Hogwarts," she managed to rasp, and Stan came rushing from his spot at Ernie's side at the sound of her voice, peering at her in earnest as though unsure if she was in her right mind. She couldn't blame him for his uncertainty. "Take me as close as you can to Hogwarts. I need to see Professor Dumbledore, as soon as possible."

"You sure ya don't want to go to St. Mungo's first, Miss, an' get checked out?" asked Stan, genuine concern in his eyes, his skin still pale from fright even as he rambled on incessantly. "Reckon I might, if I'd just been chased down by Bellatrix Lestrange. Well—I reckon I sorta was, ain't it? But she was mainly after you, Miss, that's what I'm sayin', and that ya look a bit peaky. Not, like I said, that I blame ya."

Hermione interrupted the well-meaning conductor, feeling a headache threatening around the edges of her already battered brain. With a great deal of effort, she managed to say, "Thanks, Stan, but I can always go see Madam Pomfrey in the Hospital Wing at the school if I need to."

Unable to argue with her logic, Stan told Ernie Hermione's destination and the Knight Bus continued on its way, course adjusted for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

* * *

Upon their arrival at the Hogwarts' Entrance Gates, Hermione thanked Ernie and Stan as profusely as she was able given her condition—which is to say, quietly and solemnly, but several times—and despite their protests that there was no need, insisted upon paying her fare as well as a tip for each of them. She hadn't taken off her handbag when she'd gone into the townhouse and so it was still slung over her chest, mercifully full of both Wizarding coins and Muggle pounds.

Hermione felt that after the ordeal with Bellatrix, it was the least she could to do give the two Knight Bus workers a few extra sickles—"for the trouble," as she'd put it. For Merlin's sake, if the Knight Bus hadn't turned up when she'd hailed it, she almost certainly would have been dead or in Bellatrix's custody by now. Not to mention that Stan had shown her a great deal of kindness. After she'd finished regurgitating her previous meal, he'd _Scourgified_ the wastebasket so she wouldn't have to put up with the smell of her own sick for the rest of the journey and then he'd fetched her a glass of water and a mint-flavoured sweet from the Bus's tea trolley to help rid the bitterness from her mouth. He also hadn't pestered her for details about Bellatrix's attack and for that, Hermione was infinitely grateful—especially given that she had no idea what she would have told him, had he asked. In any case, she knew from previous experience that it wasn't usually in Stan's nature to show restraint when it came to gossip or respecting people's boundaries; it must have taken him a colossal effort to leave her alone.

When they stopped in front of Hogwarts, Stan helped a still-shaky Hermione up from her bed, through the Bus, and down from the loading platform, taking care to steady her on her feet when she wavered on the uneven ground. Once she'd regained her balance, Hermione took the conductor's hand in both of hers, met his gaze with somber eyes, and said to him, her tone firm, "I meant what I told you, Stan. You and Ernie saved my life. If there's ever _anything_ I can do for you, please don't hesitate to ask."

"Sure thing, Miss—and I'll pass your message on to Ern', too," Stan replied, shuffling a little awkwardly at the intensity in her stare before he was able to compose himself. "You look after yourself, Miss 'er-my-knee," he bade her, an uncharacteristic gravity permeating his features. "Stay safe, and best o'luck to ya. Hope Professor Dumbledore'll be able to help ya." Then, he'd shaken her hand and hopped back on the platform, Ernie had tipped his cap at her, and the Knight Bus had taken off towards Hogsmeade, very literally leaving Hermione in the dust.

The witch began the walk into Hogwarts at an automatic, leisurely-paced stride, barely noticing when the castle's massive, wrought-iron gates unlocked themselves and swung open for her, so lost was she in her thoughts.

Hermione was still experiencing an alarming sense of detachment from the reality of the past hour or so, but it was slowly being gnawed away by a creeping sort of melancholy that the young woman found oddly reassuring. Or, at least, it was reassuring compared to the void of emotion that kept threatening to take over her mind. Its cloying emptiness kept looming at the edges of her subconscious, and Hermione found the call of the void to be repulsive and tempting, all at once.

Repulsive, because surrendering to the void would entail Hermione being unable to punish herself for causing her parents' death, would put the emotions she could use to torment herself out of reach.

Tempting, for the very same reason.

For the moment, though, fatigue was trumping every other thought or feeling in Hermione's head, a fact that was no small source of bemusement for her. Among other emotional responses, she ought to have been terrified, and for more than one reason. For starters, if Bellatrix hadn't yet returned to Voldemort to report her failure to capture Hermione, then the demented witch might still be searching for her, maybe even with backup this time—and it wasn't as though it was a wild stretch of the imagination to guess that Hermione might seek refuge at Hogwarts. True, other more intuitive hiding spots would be the Burrow or 12 Grimmauld, Hermione knew, but she'd rejected both places as viable options as soon as they'd come to mind.

A sizable chunk of Hermione's motive for that rejection had to do with her fear of leading Death Eaters to either house's doorstep; but that being said, there was more to it than her concern for the safety of her friends and of the Order. For one thing, just the thought of being subjected to the sight of the Weasleys and their beautiful, large, generally-intact family—to the sight of Mr. Weasley getting home from work and giving Mrs. Weasley a peck on the cheek as she bustled about the kitchen, fussing over her children and the evening meal—it was utterly repellent to Hermione in her current state of mind. She didn't want to be reminded of _family_ right now; the very notion of it made her want to spew the now non-existent contents of her belly. She also didn't want to be subjected to the inevitable and constant scrutiny, whether fueled by suspicion or pity, that would begin the very moment everyone found out exactly what she'd done to escape Bellatrix's clutches. Hermione wouldn't be able to stand it; her skin was already crawling as she imagined the way that Mrs. Weasley and Remus and Harry and Ron would look at her.

It would be unbearable.

Hogwarts, on the other hand; Hogwarts was large, and in the summer, it was predominantly empty. Hermione could hide at Hogwarts. She could be alone with the ghosts and the portraits and the suits of armour. She could have time to process things...time to grieve.

But she was getting ahead of herself. That scenario could only come to pass if the second reason why she ought to be terrified didn't pan out.

It being? Hermione had used an Unforgivable—arguably _the_ Unforgivable—on her own mother. The Grangers' townhouse was likely a smouldering pile of ashes by now, perhaps even illuminated by the viridian glow of a Dark Mark, given Bellatrix's flair for the dramatic. That meant that sooner or later, the Aurors would come investigating, and Hermione called upon as a witness. And then all hell would break loose.

Vaguely, Hermione wondered if she would be sentenced to serve time in Azkaban. It was a definite possibility, after all. Regardless of the situation, the fact was that she'd killed a person using the _Avada Kedavra._ Sure, she'd done so for the best of reasons, but as people always said, the road to hell was paved with good intentions. It could well turn out that such things didn't matter in the eyes of the Wizengamot and the DMLE.

As she'd been reflecting on all of those things, still with that same eerie impartiality, Hermione's body had led her directly into the castle, up the main staircase to the second floor, and down the Gargoyle Corridor to the entrance to the Headmaster's Tower. She came to a sudden halt in front of the corridor's namesake, and Hermione found herself at a bit of a loss as she stared at the stern-looking statue, ignorant as she was of the password. For a few seconds, she seriously contemplated listing off a series of sweets in the hope of discovering it, but something told her that a direct approach might be more effective.

"I need to see Professor Dumbledore at his earliest convenience," she announced, feeling slightly foolish.

The feeling intensified when, predictably, the gargoyle remained immobile.

"Please," entreated Hermione. "I need to speak with the Headmaster. There's no one else who can help me now."

Still, no response.

"My parents—" Her voice broke. "My parents are dead," she persevered, gritting her teeth. "I need...I need help. _Please._ Please let me in. If Professor Dumbledore's not there, I'll wait quietly, I promise. I'll behave myself. But _please,_ I'm begging you, just let me—!"

Seemingly taking pity on the desperate Hermione, who was becoming progressively more desperate and hoarse in her pleas as second after second passed without change, the Headmaster's Gargoyle took a deliberate and decisively large step to the side.

"Thank you," whispered Hermione, relief flooding her already overtaxed nervous system with all the force of an avalanche. With a slight stumble, the Gryffindor Prefect made her way up the Tower staircase, stopping every so often to grip the banister as successive bouts of lightheadedness assailed her. Eventually, though, she made it to the top, and found the door to the Headmaster's Office left ajar, as though her presence had been expected.

When Hermione entered the office, however, it seemed that that was not the case; for Professor Dumbledore was nowhere in sight and neither was Fawkes, his phoenix. The portraits that lined the wall all appeared to be fast asleep, some of them snoring more obnoxiously than others. The several, strange silver instruments that were scattered over any number of desks and tables throughout the room continued to putter about, unaffected by Hermione's presence.

Remembering her promise to the Gargoyle at the bottom of the staircase, the young witch cautiously approached the chair in front of the Headmaster's desk and lowered herself into it, helping herself to a sherbet lemon as she took her seat. She popped the sweet absentmindedly into her mouth, sucking on the sour candy it as it dissolved against her tongue and cheek. All the while, her hands clasped themselves in her lap, fretting away at too-long fingernails and rubbing anxiously at callouses as Hermione settled in to wait.

Seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into tens of minutes as Hermione sat there, waiting with an uncanny air of calm for the Headmaster. Eventually, the adrenaline that had been keeping her going dissipated from her veins, and Hermione's eyelids began to droop, her hands ceasing their nervous fidgeting and her body sinking involuntarily into the plush seat-cushions of her chair.

Hermione fought off her rising drowsiness for an admirable length of time, but the sheer weight of her trauma-induced exhaustion could not be denied; and so, eventually, the poor, afflicted young woman's eyes fell shut, her limbs went slack, and she fell into a heavy sleep, her body granting her what brief respite it could manage from the horror of her predicament.


End file.
